


Winterlight

by JessieBlackwood



Series: Winterlight Mystrade [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Greg in a kilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rescue, Scotland, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 17:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: After the events of Sherrinford, Greg heads for his cottage in the Scottish Highlands as a retreat from the world. Mycroft does the same, heading for his parent's property on ancestral lands. The snow causes his car to run off the road, and who should come to his rescue but one rather good looking Scotland Yard inspector. This is kind of putting the Scotland into Scotland Yard...





	1. Heading North

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WastingYourGum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/gifts), [EventHorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/gifts).



> Typical Mystrade hurt/comfort fluff. It's inspired by the manip by wastingyourgum, on tumblr, and eventhorizon451's question to Rupert Graves on the Filmmaker's Podcast. Concerning kilts...
> 
> I've also changed the rating, because of chapter three...

Greg Lestrade slammed the car door and leaned his back against the cold metal, eyes taking in the dusk settling on the frosty landscape beyond. The stone cottage he had parked up beside glowed warm gold in the evening light, but the air was sharply cold in the glare of the weak winter sun. The place was quiet, which was just how he wanted it. A bit of peace to allow his battered mind to rest. The narrow road that was his only access to the cottage snaked away through the trees from the main road two miles back. Beyond his cottage, it lead down to a local beauty spot with a picnic area but was not frequented much, even by tourists. There was a signpost that said it was a dead end, ‘local traffic only’, so the only people who ever came were either lost or climbers looking to tackle the crags not far away. Nobody came here at this time of year. It was the perfect retreat. 

Greg was looking forward to the solitude. Nobody had objected to his leave of absence, despite taking a whole month off. After he had been called in the deal with the aftermath of Eurus Holmes’ little killing spree, he needed a break. Apparently he was one of a very few trusted civilians who were on Mycroft Holmes’ list to call in the event of such a catastrophe. _Whoop-de-fucking-do,_ he thought, wading through the resulting paperwork. _I’m not your fucking lap dog, I thought we’d talked about this, post Baskerville._ Trying to keep a weather eye on both Holmes brothers afterward was virtually impossible. Despite his security clearance, and despite Sherlock requesting Greg look after his brother, he wasn’t allowed to contact the elder Holmes unless it was on urgent business. Apparently his state of health wasn’t urgent enough, either that or Greg’s security clearance wasn’t quite high enough to enquire how Mycroft was doing either mentally or physically. _High enough to deal with your mess, not high enough to send you a get well card. Sorry, Sherlock, I am unable to fulfil your request at this time. Talk to your bloody brother yourself..._

The cottage in the Scottish Highlands had seemed like the best place to hide out for a while. There was no mobile signal up there, and no mobile signal meant no contact from anyone who knew him. Despite himself, he couldn’t see a downside to that at the moment. He had a landline there, and a transmitting radio to contact emergency services if necessary but few people knew the cottage phone number so Greg knew he would be left alone. It was heaven, so far as he was concerned. It was maintained every week by a local couple who lived on a farm two miles away and who made sure it was secure and dry. They were his nearest neighbours. When he was there, they called to check on him, made sure he was still breathing, and when he was not there, made sure the place was secure. In return they got the fishing rights to the small loch up the valley on the property and the right to graze their sheep there too. He had known Jim and Moira since his younger days, as a restless and bored young man visiting his grandparents, when a newly married Jim had taken this London teenager in hand and shown him woodcraft, survival and hunting skills. He had taught him how to fish too. 

A wuff from the back seat of the car brought him back to the present. Anders pawed the door and Greg opened it to let the Lundehund out. The dog barked happily and went off chasing scents. Greg called him back and told him not to stray. Anders huffed and went inside. Greg smiled at the dog, understanding his eagerness to explore after so many hours in the car. He hadn’t had the animal long. His neighbour had asked him to take the dog in when her mother died, and the friendly little animal had quite won Greg over. His neighbour had agreed to walk the dog when Greg wasn’t in, as a condition for him taking the little pest on. He was a cheeky dog, but an affectionate one, and the two had hit it off quite unexpectedly. 

“We’ll take a walk later, boy. Go sit in the kitchen.” He had been up a couple of times since Anders had joined him, and the dog loved the wide open spaces. He was mindful not to let him off the lead during lambing time though, or Jim would have his hide. Even the friendliest dog could scare sheep, and he wasn’t about to have that happen.

Greg spent the remaining time before darkness bringing in supplies from the car and getting organised, while despite his orders, Anders got under his feet and generally made a nuisance of himself. Greg knew he had brought a ridiculous amount with him, but he also knew that it was twelve miles to the nearest civilisation; a village down the Glen consisting of half a dozen houses, a small shop-cum-post office, and a pub. It was fine for stamps, maps, postcards, batteries and the occasional loaf, but anything else, including petrol, required another half hour drive to the supermarket in the nearest place that could be called a town. Even his neighbours were two miles away up a rather narrow road with grass growing down the middle of it and he wasn’t about to simply pop over to borrow a cup of sugar. There was a chandlers on the Loch about seven miles in the other direction but they sold hardware, not much in the way of food, unless you counted energy bars or Kendal mint cake. 

So Greg had brought rice and pasta in large catering bags, tins of beans and vegetables, anything that would not perish easily or quickly. Bread he could make, and so dry yeast and flour were also on his list, as were couple of kilo bags of sugar and lots of butter, although he was banking on the pantry to stay cold enough to preserve it. He had called ahead to Moira before making the journey, and he knew they would have switched the small fridge on, and stocked it with perishables like milk and cheese and butter, but he had brought more with him anyway. The cottage was equipped with a wood burning stove and an aga, which also dealt with the heating and hot water for the shower. The place was on a water supply and electric, hence the fridge, but the electricity supply was not exactly reliable. Greg was used to improvising. His food and fuel were therefore tailored to fit his needs. He hadn’t spent much time up at the cottage recently, and there were repairs to do that Jim had emailed him about. 

He had brought a small radio, his laptop and tablet, a printer with spare ink cartridges and plenty of paper, as well as his toolbox and electric drill. He had the repairs to do to keep busy, he would also need to chop some wood for the wood burner. He started the burner going, knowing he had no need to light the aga until the following morning when he would be able to see better. The burner could stay lit, and keep the place warm all winter if necessary. However, you could boil a kettle on the wood burner but the aga was necessary for more ambitious cooking and baking. 

The cottage itself was old, built to last, to withstand whatever the seasons threw at it. Thick stone walls kept out the heat during summer and kept it in during winter. Modern triple glazing helped but the walls had been designed long before the advent of such technology. Greg remembered it being warm and cosy even before he had brought it up to date with a damp course and new windows. 

Inside the place was comfortable but practical. He had a pair of wing-backed armchairs by the wood burner, soft rugs on the polished wood floor, whitewashed walls of undressed stone. Here and there a picture hung; a sepia photo of his great grandparents, a watercolour of the Loch by his grandmother, a pencil sketch of the view from the porch by his mother. He had little in the way of keepsakes here although memories he had in plenty. Childhood holidays with his grandparents when his grandad, a forester, would take him on long walks to spot deer, hares, dragonflies. Jim and his grandfather had taught him to hunt and shoot, to fish and to respect wildlife and the wild places. At night, his Grandad showed him the stars, unsullied with the city light pollution. You could see the Milky Way, meteor showers and sometimes, if you were lucky, it was far enough to the north to see the Northern Lights. 

Later, sitting at the small table to eat his dinner, Greg considered it had all been a good idea to come. He could drive into Oban as long as the weather held, walk along the harbour, browse the shops. He had no rush and no worry any more. He could find an internet cafe, catch up with his emails, slow down, de-stress. Smiling, he turned on the radio and tuned to the weather report, sipping tea and reading the newspapers he had brought with him. When Anders scratched the door, begging to be let out to do his business, Greg leaned against the door frame in the darkness and admired the starry night as he waited for the dog. Even without the weather report, he could tell by the clear sky it would be frosty. Snow was forecast for later in the week, so he decided if he was going to Oban he would need to go tomorrow. He called the dog back in, locked up and headed for bed. 

Greg had always adopted highland dress when he was in Scotland; a practical khaki kilt, heavy aran pattern sweater, thick socks and sturdy hiking boots. He strode about Oban with familiarity, picking up a few things he had forgotten, buying a couple of things in the bakery that enticed him, and making it back well before dark. The countryside was beautiful; heather and gorse cladding the hills, mountains rising in the background already dusted with snow. The small Glen he owned along with the cottage was home to grouse and deer, rabbit and fox. Squirrels, red ones, were common visitors. He had his camera with him, and intended to indulge his hobby with some wildlife photos if he could. 

A few days later, snow began to fall as predicted. It lay lightly to start with, leaving soft fluffy white powder over everything. The whole place glittered and most of it had melted by nightfall but it iced up before dawn and more snow fell the following day. By the week’s end everything was dusted with it, with more predicted for the next few days. A cold wind was blowing too, which meant he was less inclined to venture out unless absolutely necessary. Even Anders stayed happily inside by the wood burner. 

The first week had passed fairly routinely. Greg was content, sleeping late, going for walks with Anders, writing on his laptop, reading his library of e-books, dozing in front of the stove. He didn’t really mind how much it might snow. He had enough food for months, packed in the small pantry and in the kitchen cupboards. Another shopping trip to Oban had brought in enough to last him his whole predicted stay. He was well equipped with warm clothing, a thick duvet on the bed and hot water bottles. The car was covered with a tarp and he had skis and snowshoes in the small utility room on the side of the cottage. Barring medical emergencies, he felt safe enough. He settled in to weather the storm. The bad weather would be gone by the time he was ready to head home, and if not, well, there were worse things than being snowed in and unable to return to work. 

0000000000

Mycroft sat in his room at the club and silently wondered if he was going out of his mind. The job he was used to doing, the powerbase he had built for himself over the years, suddenly it was all pressing down on him, and he found he lacked any kind of enthusiasm for dealing with it. Inside of six months, he had suffered two crises; Mycroft’s partner of three years had left him, citing irreconcilable differences, although Mycroft knew that Jeremy had been restless for longer than that. He had met someone else, someone younger, and Mycroft did not have the energy to stop him leaving. Then Eurus had inflicted her games upon them all and his personal problems paled into insignificance. Things had come right in the end, but at a terrible cost. Right then, he felt at a loss to understand what one did to survive such griefs. Frankly he knew he hadn’t a clue. He wanted to scream, but he hadn’t the energy. He wanted to… leave, to run, to disappear…

His PA, Anthea, worked around him, making excuses, shifting meetings when Mycroft obviously wasn’t receptive, making arrangements for him, shoving food in front of him when she thought he needed it, standing in for him like the capable powerhouse he knew her to be. Rumour had it that he was ill, stress brought on by family bereavement. Lady Smallwood eventually recommended he take some leave and come back when things looked brighter. 

Mycroft knew it was career suicide to leave right then. Everything he had built risked being ruined despite her assurances that nothing would change. His rivals would seek to take it all apart behind his back and there would be no place for him when, or if, he returned. 

“Anthea, dear, would you ask for a car to be sent round? I’m going home….I do not feel...quite well.”

“Certainly, sir,” she replied in her efficient way. Five minutes later, a car was waiting for him. Mycroft picked up his coat, gloves, umbrella. He went down in the lift, exited the lobby and got in the sleek black car that the uniformed driver stood beside, holding the door for him. Inside, it was warm and dark. The driver took him home quickly through the afternoon traffic, navigating from Westminster to Belgravia in good time. Inside his townhouse, Mycroft silently despaired. It was too quiet without another body there to talk to, to discuss the day, to be with, even in silent companionship. He did not want to stay there, but where else could he go? He had to get away, somewhere quiet, somewhere secluded, somewhere nobody could find him...but where? France? Iceland? Neither Paris or Reykjavik held any appeal. Scotland? His parents had a house on the ancestral lands of Inverlornay, someway to the north of Inverary. He could head up there and seek some clarity in his thoughts. Nobody would come looking. 

The drive up was done in two legs, the first to the Borders, and an overnight stay at an anonymous Holiday Inn somewhere, then the final leg north toward the Highlands. Snow began to fall that second day, quickly covering the roads. Mycroft’s 4x4 was sturdy enough but it was extremely difficult to see the road. As darkness fell, Mycroft realised he must have missed the turning he wanted. The satnav was next to useless and the headlights were picking up nothing in the glare and the swirling flakes beyond. Suddenly, the car jumped as it hit something, yanked the wheel out of his grasp and swerved madly across the road. There was a crunch and an abrupt stop. The airbag had triggered, cushioning Mycroft’s forward lurch but bruising in its impact. Mycroft reeled, disorientated. He had no idea where he was...The snow was beginning to cover the car… Panic threatened, but his head was fuzzy and he was having difficulty in concentrating… Seconds later, everything went black.


	2. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cliched, but the Universe is rarely so lazy...

Greg was settling back into his chair when he heard the bang. It was loud enough that Anders started barking, and Greg peered through his window to see if he could see what had happened. Nothing moved, and the snow swirled across the glass obscuring his vision. He sighed. Probably a tree coming down. Although it didn’t sound exactly like that… It had been more of a metallic sound…

“Anders, pipe down, you daft animal,” Greg snapped, but the dog wouldn’t stop. In fact, Anders went to the door and stood expectantly, staring at it, then he turned back to Greg, then looked at the door again, then back at Greg, barking now and again for emphasis. “What’s with you? You’re nuts if you think I’m going out in that,” Greg complained. Anders stubbornly stayed by the door. Greg stared through the window again, and this time saw something… a light? Well, if it was, it wasn’t moving. He shook his head, but Anders wasn’t shifting. He barked again, waiting.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, boy. It’s awful out there…”

Fifteen minutes later, Greg was suited up in his cold weather gear (fleece, woollen hat, gloves, puffer jacket with the hood pulled up, and hiking boots), and armed with a heavy duty torch, a folding spade, and a dog, who was at this moment tugging on his lead and barking with enthusiasm. In the event it was Anders who led him to the car, half buried against a tree not far from the roadway. One door hung open crazily, and there was evidence that the airbag had blown, but there was no one in it… Anders barking turned his attention away from the car and across to the trees where a dark lump was rapidly getting covered in snow. 

He turned the man over and couldn’t suppress the gasp as he recognised the person lying there. What the fuck was Mycroft Holmes doing here? He ran experienced hands over the man, checking for breaks and any obvious damage but he couldn’t feel anything. He hefted the limp body across his shoulders in a fireman’s lift, and walked back to his cottage, aided by the lights through the swirling snow and Anders who found his way back unerringly. They staggered through the door and into the bedroom and Greg lowered the man onto the bed before heading back out to retrieve anything from the car that he might have with him. Best to do so now or he’d be digging the blasted car out before he could get to it. The snow had lessened but not stopped by the time he went back, and he peered in the door to see bags on the back seat, and a computer bag too. He reached to take the keys out of the ignition, then hefted the bags from the back seat. He tried to shut the door but it was too bent to do so, so he left it. Before he went back, he checked the car’s boot but there was nothing but a tool set in there. 

By the time he got back, Mycroft had begun to wake, but sluggishly, moaning softly. Greg put a kettle on and went to check on his guest but the man was still unaware, even if he was making a noise. It wasn’t such a bad sign. Greg searched the man’s bags and found a set of pajamas, then went back into the bedroom. 

“It’s okay, Mycroft, you’re safe,” he said gently. “I’m just going to get you comfortable, okay? Let’s get you out of these wet things and into bed, hm? You’ll feel much better then.” He kept up the litany of instructions as he swiftly got the man undressed, keeping his voice soothing and calm. Although manhandling a fully grown adult into pjs was not the easiest of tasks. Gently, Greg prised open an eyelid and flashed his pen torch at the blue eye that was revealed. The pupil shrank. He did the same with the other one and it, too, reacted. Maybe only minor concussion then? He hoped so. He wasn’t sure about an ambulance getting through, nor the air ambulance in this weather. Besides, it was dark and the air ambulance didn’t fly anyway after dusk. Greg sighed and went to make tea, hoping there would be no complications that would require urgent medical care because he had a horrible feeling nobody was going anywhere tonight. 

Mycroft found waking was like trying to swim through treacle. It was so hard to open his eyes. When he did so, it revealed nothing of note to tell him where he was. His head ached, and so did the rest of him. The dark room was impossible to see very well, and the bed he was in was at least comfortable. Hospital? He doubted it. He remembered the car jolting and hitting...something, but that was all. As he lay there, the door opened, casting light from behind the figure standing there, making identifying the man impossible. He assumed it was a man, anyway. Considering he seemed to be wearing a kilt and a thick sweater to go by the profile, the man looked like a local. The voice was disturbingly familiar though and for a moment, Mycroft thought he was hallucinating.

“Mycroft? You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Gregory?” His own voice sounded rusty. 

“Yup. Small world, hm?” Greg came to the bed and sat on it, gazing at Mycroft with concern. “Do you feel dizzy? Sick?”

“Not as far as I am aware.”

“Don’t get up,” he warned, laying a restraining hand on Mycroft’s chest. “Just in case. Humour me, for now. You crashed your car, ended up unconscious in the snow. Just...stay where you are for now, please?” Greg flicked his penlight on again and leaned over, gazing at Mycroft meaningfully. “Just open your eyes for me?” He flashed the light at the man’s eyes but the pupils reacted equally. “Good. that’s good. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two, Gregory. What on earth are you doing?”

“First aid, Mycroft. I am trying to check for concussion. You knocked yourself out with that crash. I’m checking to see if I need emergency services or if I can leave you to rest here.”

“I am fine…”

“Any pain anywhere?”

“Nothing severe.”

“Headache?”

“Yes, mild though.”

“Neckache?”

“Yes, a little. And the rest of me...just a mild ache...”

“Just take it easy then. You’ll most probably have suffered whiplash. You’ll stiffen up overnight I expect. We can deal with that later. For now, you’re going to rest up, you hear me?”

“Gregory, what are you doing here?”

“Here? I live here.”

“You live in London, you’re a police officer with the Met…” Mycroft sounded as though he were trying to convince himself that he wasn’t going mad.

“Yes, I am. Don’t worry, Myc, you’re not hallucinating. I really am here, this is me. However, this is my property too. Grandparents were Scottish, Mycroft. They left me this place when they died. The wife tried to get me to sell but I’m glad I never listened. This is where I come when I want some peace and quiet. Where were you headed though?”

“I was heading to our house near Inverrary, it’s our ancestral home at Inverlornay, near Dalavich, but I lost the way in the snow. The sat nav was no good, it couldn’t find a signal, and before I knew it, I was off the road.” 

“Good job you went off road here then. If it hadn’t been for my dog, you could have died. He found you. In fact, he dragged me out of here to check when we heard the bang.”

“You have a dog?”

“Yes. Anders!” he called and the animal dashed in at the sound of his voice. “Warning you though, he’s a pest of the highest order.”

“What on earth is he?”

“He’s a Lundehund. Norwegian.”

“A Viking pest then?” Mycroft smiled as the little animal jumped onto Greg’s lap and huffed for attention. Greg scritched behind his ears and the dog squirmed happily.

“Now stay in bed, until I tell you you can get up, okay?” Greg instructed. “Trips to the loo notwithstanding. It’s over there in the corner, in the ensuite. Just be careful, in case you do go dizzy.” 

“I had a feeling you were going to tell me it was outside in the yard.”

“Not that primitive, Mycroft.” Greg smiled warmly at him, then he got up again and went into the other room. Mycroft was left wondering at the way fate played a hand in life. Who knew Gregory Lestrade would find him here of all places. Watching him go, Mycroft was mesmerised by the apparel Greg was sporting. It seemed that the man took his lineage seriously if the kilt was anything to go by, despite not being a plaid in the proper sense. 

Presently, Greg returned with two mugs of steaming tea, sitting back down on the bed. He handed one off to Mycroft and sat sipping the other, occasionally blowing on it to cool it. Mycroft tried to ignore the bare knees and well defined calf muscles in their thick socks, and instead looked around the room, seeing family pictures on the walls, a sturdy wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a wash stand. It all looked very vintage in decor, very old fashioned. 

“Been in the family for six generations, but it’s older than that,” Greg explained, seeing Mycroft looking around curiously. “I think it’s Jacobean, probably earlier. It would have stories to tell if the stones could speak. It’s always been my second home though.” 

“Gregory, why are you are wearing a kilt?” The sight had damn near short circuited Mycroft’s brain. 

“Prefered clothing up here, why?” 

“No reason…” Mycroft cleared his throat and deflected by sipping his tea. “It...suits you.” he said, gruffly. 

Greg grinned. “Thank you. So…you are going to get some more rest, okay? I shall check on you periodically, to make sure you’re alright. If you need the loo, then take care getting up. If you feel dizzy, call for me. Otherwise, try to get some sleep. I brought your bags in from the car, so your things are all here.” 

“Thank you…” Mycroft belatedly realised he was in bed, wearing his own pajamas, which meant that somebody had to have undressed him and put him into his night things. That someone had to have been Greg, it didn’t take a genius to work out that there was nobody else. Mycroft was momentarily mortified. However, Greg seemed not to be phased by it. He was acting the genial host and seemed not to be bothered over much by Mycroft’s intrusion into his solitude. 

When he next woke, it was to a dull light shining under the curtains, and there was a warmth behind him, a solid body against his back. Mycroft froze, uncertain what to do. _Should I move? What should I say?_ He was saved by a wuff and a snuffle as the weight against him shifted and morphed into a small dog. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. He had thought that Greg was sharing the bed with him and that... _Oh, God, that would have been embarrassing to say the least_. Despite his own recent relationship, Mycroft had always found the handsome detective inspector to be something of a guilty pleasure, a fantasy. Greg had occupied Mycroft’s radar because of Sherlock, and they had rarely come into contact, and then only perfunctorily, when Greg was hunting for where the wayward lad had disappeared to, or when he was calling to check Mycroft was okay after the ordeal at Sherrinford. Mycroft had always thought the man unattainable, first because he was married, to a woman, and then because Mycroft himself was spoken for. He had gathered no data that would lead him to suppose Gregory Lestrade was anything but straight, for one thing. He was a man, and good at it, as far as Sherlock was concerned, interested in the stereotypical things a man of his background and age would be; football, a pint at his local, package holidays in Spain... 

Greg woke from his chair with a stiff neck of his own, and spent a few moments unkinking his spine before getting up at the insistence of his bladder. He washed up quickly and splashed his face with water to wake himself up. Mycroft was still asleep, Anders cuddled into his back. Greg smiled at the scene, and then went back into the living area and brought the wood burner and the aga to life with the intent of baking some bread. He put the kettle on again too, needing coffee to wake himself up completely. The snow was still falling and the wind was still gusting hard and the smell of baking bread wafted through the cottage as Greg sat back down with his own breakfast of porridge. He wondered what the Hell fate was playing at to have brought Mycroft bloody Holmes to his door. 

He made himself another coffee and then sat at his laptop for a while, writing. He was attempting to write a novel, had been for a while, basing it on his own experiences as a policeman. It wasn’t bad, but it lacked something, and he wasn’t sure what. 

“Gregory?” The voice from the bedroom was tentative. 

“You okay?” Greg answered, tapping the keys in an attempt to finish the paragraph before moving to see what Mycroft wanted.

“Do you think...may I be allowed up yet?” 

Greg levered himself off his seat and went into the bedroom, to find his dog sprawled across Mycroft’s lap, being petted. He smiled. “What’s up, Myc?”

“Might I be allowed up?”

“You know, you don’t have to listen to me. In fact, I am surprised that you did. How do you feel?”

“All things considered, I am rested, my neck aches a little but not unbearably so, and I am somewhat hungry. And as to listening to you, you obviously have some knowledge of first aid, so the rational thing to do would be to listen to the man with the most knowledge on the subject, which happens to be you at the moment.”

“Okay then. Hang on, you have a dressing gown in there?” He indicated the bags and Mycroft nodded. 

“The grey leather,” he indicated. Greg rummaged and found a thin silk dressing gown. 

“This thing?” He asked. “It’s a bit thin. Okay for summer maybe.”

“Alas, my parents’ house has central heating. I did not expect to end up somewhere so...primitive.”

“This is not primitive, I’ll have you know. I do have electricity. And an inside toilet.” Greg glared at him in exasperation. 

“I am afraid I don’t have another dressing gown,” Mycroft admitted. 

“Here. Use mine.” Greg grabbed his fleece robe from off the back of the door and held it up. “Come on, that thing won’t keep you warm at all.” 

Mycroft swung his feet out of the bed and sat up, slowly. He encountered his slippers at least. Greg had located them the night before. He felt Greg’s hand under his arm, steadying, and he was helped solicitously to his feet. The robe was wrapped about him and he slipped his arms into the sleeves and belted it across his middle, but it was a little big on him. He was reminded that Greg’s shoulders were broader than his. He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the air. With a swirl of his kilt, Greg turned and lead the way back into the living area. 

Mycroft looked around him appreciatively. The living area was quite big, almost the rest of the building. There was a large polished wood table with chairs around it for six people, a fireplace oposite in which was situated a wood burning stove, rag rugs on the floor in front of the hearth and two wingback chairs either side. There was an aga against the far wall, with work surfaces next to it, leading around the corner of the room to the large stoneware belfast sink. Another smaller table sat to the right of the bedroom door, Greg’s laptop and printer on it, a desk chair behind it. The place had a variety of lighting; a ceiling light, oil lamps, candles, and a standard lamp, none of which were lit. There was a desk lamp by the laptop which was on, but the rest of the place was lit by the glow from the wood burner. It was...welcoming, peaceful. The scent of fresh bread on the air was wonderful. 

“Sit yourself down by the fire, keep warm,” Greg instructed. “Tea?”

“Please.”

“How do you take it?”

“Milk, one sugar.”

“Coming up.” Greg busied himself making tea and Mycroft settled himself in one of the wingback chairs. As the kettle boiled, Greg checked the bread and removed the loaf from the oven. 

“You haven’t asked why I came north?” Mycroft ventured to enquire. “You asked where I was heading, but not why.”

“None of my business really. Figured you would have your reasons.” Greg returned with the promised tea in a large mug. “Figured you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.” 

“I…” Mycroft’s voice died. _Why did I come North?_ “I was...I needed to get away.”

“After...after Sherrinford?”

“Quite.” 

“I guess I can appreciate that, although the clear up took some time, and you didn’t have to deal with all the bloody paperwork.”

“Ah. So they got you to do that?”

“Apparently I’m on your shortlist of _trusted employees_.” Greg’s tone was not pleased. 

“I’m sorry about that, but the fact remains, you are. Trusted, I mean. I… Greg, I am not sure how to deal with all of this. I hoped by coming north I would gain some peace, some...clarity, but instead I have caused you more trouble. I shall of course seek to leave you in peace as soon as I can…”

“You can relax there. We’re snowed in for the foreseeable, I’m afraid.”

“Snowed in?”

“Yup. The blizzard closed in last night, and it’s not let up yet. Won’t for a while either. We are effectively trapped until further notice.”

“Oh, my God.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, you know. I’ve got enough food to last us a couple of months and the snow’ll be gone in less than two weeks…”

“Two weeks!” Mycroft’s voice had emerged as a squeak. He cleared his throat. “Two weeks?”

“At least. Calm down, Myc. I’ve got plenty of fuel laid in, we’ve got pasta, rice, tins aplenty. I can cook decent food for both of us, and I love baking bread. Talking of which, you want some? You said you were hungry.”

“I...yes, please.” Mycroft continued to look troubled though, as if the thought of being at the mercy of the snow scared him. 

“You know, you’d be trapped just as much at your own place, where d’you say it was, Inverlornay?”

“Yes, near Dalavich.”

“Back of beyond, that.”

“And this isn’t?”

“Well, I’ve got neighbours a couple miles away, and there’s a village with a good pub twelve miles north east…”

“In walking distance then?”

Greg laughed at the sarcasm. “Don’t worry, Mycroft. We are safe, I have a radio for emergencies, and there’s bound to be clear skies soon.”

“Then I could arrange for a helicopter to pick me up.” Greg suddenly didn’t like the hopeful tone in his guest’s voice. “I can have one fly out from RAF Lossiemouth…”

“You can do that?”

“In emergency, yes.”

“You don’t have to, Mycroft. I don’t actually mind you being here, you know?”

“You...you don’t? I thought I was interrupting your retreat.” 

“Not really. Besides, company is nice. The _right_ company, that is.”

“Am I the right company? Why on earth would I be?”

“Because. Look, Mycroft, I know you. There’s just the two of us here, no listening devices, no evesdroppers, nothing. You can be exactly what you need to be under this roof, nothing more, nothing less. Nobody to tell you what not to eat, what to do, how to behave. You can relax here. You don’t have to be scary Mr Government Agent here. Don’t misunderstand, I have immense respect for you and what you do. Always will. What you shoulder in terms of responsibility for the Nation’s security, what you do to make sure Britain stays safe, Queen and Country and all that, it’s amazing. However, you and I, we do similar jobs, in a way. You deal with the neighbours, I keep our backyard clean. However, you are also a big brother, to two of the most difficult siblings I can think of, and you have to shoulder that as well. You have family, Mycroft, family that needs you…”

“Not any more, it would seem.”

“What? Why?”

“After... _Eurus,_ mummy and father found out she was still alive. Uncle Rudy began the lie that she had died in a fire at our home but I continued it. I could see no practical use in telling them otherwise. She is not their daughter. She is...lost in her own mind. Now my parents have practically disowned me. Now apparently Sherlock is the grown up and I...I am persona non grata. Sherlock is the one who can communicate with her, through his music. Sherlock is the one who solved the mystery and brought her back to them. Sherlock…” Mycroft’s voice broke. Without thinking, Greg wrapped the man in a hug, drawing him close. Startled, Mycroft tried to pull back, slopping his tea into his lap as he did so. “Ow!”

“Oh, damn, sorry. Are you okay?” Greg grabbed a cloth and mopped ineffectually. 

“It’s alright, it’s quite alright...Damn it all. I’m sorry…” Mycroft made to stand, but dizziness caught him as he moved too quickly, and the next second he swayed and would have fallen, but for Greg’s arms as they came around him again, this time steadying, holding him firmly, lending his strength. He stilled, vision clearing, aware of the gentle voice in his ear, soothing, calming. 

“There, there, it’s fine. Now then, you okay?” Brown eyes were staring into his own, concerned and wary.

“I am...better, yes. I think...maybe back to bed?”

“Sure, come on. Lean on me though.” Greg helped him back into the bedroom. “I’ll get you a hot water bottle for your feet, it’s not as warm in here. Anders? Up! Stay,” he admonished the dog, who leapt up and cuddled close to Mycroft on the bed without question. “You need to get clean pjs on too. You’re damp. You got another set?”

“Yes, my grey bag again.”

“Not more silk ones, I hope?”

“Flannel.”

“Good.” Greg rummaged and found them, passing them over. “You want help?”

“NO!” Mycroft paused, took a deep breath and moderated his tone. “No, thank you. I can manage.” Greg left him alone, an unreadable look on his face. 


	3. Survival Techniques

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wants to get out of the cottage, and Greg obliges. Look for the scene referencing those wonderful manips...

Greg said no more about what had been revealed for the remainder of the day. He brought Mycroft dinner, a rather tasty stew with suet dumplings, and biscuits for after, with more tea, and then left him alone. The radio was playing on a classical music channel, Chopin followed by Bach followed by Walton… There was quite a variety, and Mycroft was lulled to sleep by it all. He wasn’t aware when the lights went off, but woke a while later to darkness and silence, apart from the ever present wind outside, hitting the wall at the back of the property. He closed his eyes, aware of a small dog snoring close by. He reached out and his fingers found warm fur, and somehow the small presence soothed him, and he had no difficulty drifting off to sleep again. 

The following day dawned bright and cold but clear. Greg was showered and dressed by the time Mycroft woke, and he was pleased to note that the man looked better already. 

“Morning.” Greg greeted him with a cup of tea, and toast spread with marmalade laced with whisky. “Talisker marmalade, a bit of a guilty pleasure but...when in Rome.”

“I doubt this is everyday fair even up here,” Mycroft commented. “Thank you, Gregory. This is luxury indeed. Breakfast in bed is rare.”

“Well, enjoy it while you can. When the marmalade runs out, we have porridge.”

“Actually, porridge would be fine anyway. Gregory, you are wearing proper tartan today?” The blue and russet suited him. 

“Yeah, we’re Frasers on my mother’s side. It’s her family tartan. I’m afraid I am a sassenach on Dad’s side though, and part French to boot.”

“Is that so? Well, your secret is safe with me. I’ll not tell a soul.”

Greg chuckled. “Eat your toast,” he said, fondly.

“Does anybody actually wear a kilt like that these days?” It wasn’t a modern one like the utility kilt Greg had sported the day before. This was a proper plaid, extra folds hanging down the back. 

“It was my grandad’s actually. I know it’s a bit...well, silly, really. Nobody wears one like this unless you’re reenacting the battle of Culloden, but honestly, I like wearing it occasionally, and this is my land, I can do what I want on it.” He grinned, good natured, a little shy. “Listen, don’t worry if you hear banging. I have some repair work to do. I need to fix a fence and the lean-to behind the cottage. If you want anything, shout. I’ll hear you.” 

“Very well. Do you need help?” 

“Thanks but you should probably stay in the warm.”

“I’m not sick, Gregory. I am feeling much restored this morning.”

“Just in case,” Greg insisted. “It’s bloody cold outside, Mycroft. I doubt you have much cold weather gear with you, hm?” 

“I do have thermals and walking attire. I wasn’t completely unprepared.” There was a huffy tone to Mycroft’s voice which Greg thought sounded adorable but he would never say that to the man’s face, ever. He sounded like Sherlock on a strop, only less violent. 

“Well, just stay warm, whatever you decide. I can hardly order you to stay in. I’m surprised you’ve listened this far. Sherlock would have thrown a massive strop and run off by now.”

“I am not my brother, as you can see.” 

“Yup, I can see that. Thank God, Mycroft. One of him is enough for anybody.” 

As he lay there in bed, Mycroft listened to the sounds of Greg getting ready to leave the comparative comfort of the cottage while he munched his toast and sipped his tea. He took his time, savouring it. It was a rare thing that anybody made him breakfast in bed. That had been his mother’s province and she was disinclined to do anything for him these days. She didn’t even know where he was. Probably didn’t care either. 

When he finished his breakfast, he went for a shower, indulging in the hot water washing the grime of the last few days away. He came out feeling much better and decided it might be a good idea to go check the car. He had a feeling it might be a write off but he still wanted to check. He would have to arrange for it to be picked up at some point and his insurers notified. Mycroft dressed in his thermals and then pulled on tweed trousers, dragging out his walking boots and waterproof gaiters from the bottom of his largest bag to add to his ensemble. He found a pair of thick wool socks for his feet, and a long sleeved polo shirt for his top half. He followed that with a polar fleece jumper, and finally pulled out his waterproof jacket from where it was folded up on the bottom of the case. He wanted to show Greg that he wasn’t completely clueless. If anything he wanted the man to respect him. He rather doubted that Greg would think him anything other than stupid considering he had lost control of the car and run it into a tree. He wondered vaguely if the tree was alright. _Did the tree belong to Greg?_ He blinked. _What on earth am I thinking?_

He found his hat too, flattened on the case bottom, under the coat. He shook it out, and brushed it with his fingers. It was a Russian Ushanka, gifted to him by some Russian diplomat a long time since, and not something that often saw the light of day. He had kept it though, because the grey rabbit fur was warm and soft and the ear flaps were bound to keep his ears from freezing off on just such an occasion as this. He had used it a couple of times when visiting its country of origin, but never in Britain. He was rather pleased he had thought to pack it. He pulled the coat on, and then his hat, and then realised he didn’t have a scarf… _Damn._ There was one in the car, if he remembered. He found his keys and pocketed them, then opened the front door. 

He could hear Greg hammering something behind the cottage, and stood for a moment taking in the scene. It was cold, clear and bright. The snow was white, bright white, almost too bright. _Sun glasses,_ he thought. Forgot those too. He might have a pair in the glove box, which is where he figured his gloves were too. _Now, where did I hit the tree?_ He looked up the lane to the left. _Somewhere up there?_ Frankly, he had no idea. He stepped off and into the snow, testing the depth. It was deep but not too bad. Greg had cleared a track that lead around the cottage. He followed it around to the back, deciding discretion was the better part of valour. He would ask Greg where the car was.

“Gregory?” He found the man up a ladder at the rear of the property, hammering nails into a wayward piece of cladding. 

“Oh, you…” Greg’s voice died in his throat. Mycroft was warmly, and properly, clad for the weather. He took a moment to admire the view. He looked good. Tweeds, modern gaiters, walking boots, a distinctly Russian-looking hat, and a good coat. _That was quite an expensive brand too,_ he thought, recognising the logo. “You look ready for anything, Myc.” 

“Thank you. I did say I was prepared.”

“Silk dressing gown?” Greg retorted, grinning.

“I am never going to live that down, am I?”

“Nope.”

“Need I remind you, I packed my night attire for a centrally heated house, not a victorian hovel.”

“Hey, my cottage is not a hovel. Toilet _inside,_ remember?” Greg chuckled. “Okay, okay, I concede you look okay for surviving outside in the cold. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I wanted to see the car, and retrieve a couple of things, but I have no idea where it is.”

“Oh, right. Well, gimme a mo and I’ll take you. It’s only up the road, but you went into the tree line quite far, you might not see it from the path if you don’t know where to look. Might be a good idea to fetch a spade with us. Might need to dig it out.” 

“Ah, yes. I hadn’t considered it might be hard to see.”

“Well, the snow will most likely have covered it by now. The drifts are pretty deep. Give me a few…I’ll be down in a little while.” He hammered in a couple more nails, deft hands adjusting the cladding he was fixing, hammered in two more, and then clambered down, satisfied with the job. “Okay, let me just stow the ladder, and then we can go.” 

Mycroft moved away to the front of the house, and leaned against the porch. The place was very neat and attractive in its own way. Thick flat-topped stone walls formed a large rectangle with curved corners, and the black-tiled roof lay low between the inside edges of the walls. The whitewashed walls contrasted sharply with the black roof but right now were blending in with the snow until the place looked camouflaged. There were wooden window boxes under each window which would presumably be a riot of seasonal flowers every year but right now they were empty and somewhat forlorn. 

“Nasturtiums,” Greg said, arriving at the front of the house, tool kit in hand. “I usually grow nasturtiums in the boxes, you can eat them in salads. The place should be thatched really,” he added, “or grassed over. Tiles are easier to repair, and I’ve got thermal lagging underneath them now. It’s not as historical but it makes it liveable. Plus I had a fireplace and chimney installed, so I could put the wood burner in. It’s not listed, there are still too many of them to bother, but I’ve tried to retain the character.”

“Practical, without being too modern,” Mycroft commented, and received a pleased nod. 

“It’s still got its character, but it’s nicer to live in now. I did wonder about retiring up here once, but honestly, I think it’s too remote.”

“It is lovely to retreat to, though.”

“That’s why I do, when I can.” Greg stowed his tools and fetched the spade, hefting it across his shoulder as they walked up the road. He whistled to Anders who scampered on ahead of them. The snow made it heavy going but the car wasn’t actually that far away. “You must have turned down here, thinking it was your turn off,” Greg speculated. “Did you not see the dead end sign?”

“Not at all, but I couldn’t see much, I’m afraid. The darkness and the snow made it well nigh impossible. I probably should have stopped before it got to this, but I had no idea where I was. I am not even sure if I was thinking straight…I didn’t really want to stop in the middle of nowhere by choice.” 

“Here we are, you see? You vered off and there it is, against that tree.” The surrounding trees had protected the car somewhat from the severity of the snow but not completely and they had to dig deep on the driver’s side to clear it. Well, Greg dug deeply, while Mycroft watched, but Greg wouldn’t let him do any of the work. When he could lean in, Mycroft retrieved his gloves from the glove box, and then leaned in the back behind the passenger seat and pulled out his scarf from the door pocket. “There, gloves and scarf...Ah, yes,” he added, wrestling the boot open. He opened a box there, containing car cleaning supplies, a first aid kit and a wheel wrench, rummaged about and retrieved a small box. “My sunglasses,” he said, unfolding them and perching them on his nose. “Ah, that’s better. I cannot believe how strong the glare from the sun is.” Greg was looking at him strangely. “Is there something wrong? I thought it was advisable to protect one’s eyes from the glare off the snow?”

“Nope, nothing wrong, Mycroft. You are perfectly right. It’s a very good idea to do that,” Greg agreed. _I just wish you didn’t look so fucking sexy wearing them. Oakley shades, expensive and sleek. Like the man wearing them...Shut up, Lestrade. You cannot have him, he’s out of your league…_

Mycroft was pleased he seemed to have impressed Greg somehow. Maybe it was the shades, maybe the clothes, but the man was polite and respectful, suggesting they walk down the road so he could show Mycroft the view. They took it slowly and carefully, and Greg was careful not to tire his guest, but he was wanting to show off his estate, despite it being small and probably not what Mycroft was used to. It was still his, and he wanted to see Mycroft’s face when they got to the viewpoint. As they crested a slight rise, the sun was as high as it would ever be at this time of year, casting shadows from behind them as they reached the top. Before them lay the snowbound valley, with the loch at the bottom reflecting the blue of the sky turning the water to steel. The tree-clad slopes to either side sported a covering of evergreen spruce, bordered by the thin willowy trunks of mountain ash, devoid of leaf at this time of year, but somehow beautiful nevertheless. Gorse and heather spread across the hilltops, almost invisible beneath the blanket of white, and beyond lay higher mountains, pale ranges in the distance. Mycroft stopped, stunned to silence by the beauty before him. 

“Wonderful, isn’t it,” Greg said, regarding his guest’s expression with pride. “My own personal glen, comes with the cottage.”

“Breathtaking, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured. “Simply breathtaking.” 

Greg’s smile was wide and happy. “Fishing rights to the loch, grazing rights to the Glen, hunting rights in the woodland. If you like, we could go hunting.”

“Hunting?”

“Yeah, but at this time of year, I usually go hunting photos, not game.” 

“We could, if the weather holds.” Mycroft took out his phone, still some battery left, and turned it toward the view. He needed to capture it, the first time he had laid eyes on this special place. He strategically turned the phone side-on for the widest view, and caught gregory in the shot to the side, one foot up on a rock, one hand hooked into his belt, dog at his feet, staring across his lands...He looked like a clan chieftain, contemplative, grave, proud. All he needed was a Claymore, or maybe a Lochaber axe to complete the picture. It sent a shiver down Mycroft’s spine. 

“Is that an island?” Mycroft asked, noting a small round blob in the water.

“Kind of, it’s known as a Crannog. It’s a lake dwelling. You know, a round house on stilts. I had the archaeologists in a couple of years ago, from Edinburgh University. You know what they found?”

“Do tell.”

Greg took a breath. “I’ll show you when we get home. I have some pot sherds they pulled out of the bottom of the structure, and a piece of wood, you can see tool marks. Originally,” he said, eagerly, the enthusiasm rising in his voice, “people thought crannogs were Iron Age, pre-Roman, you know? Around 600 to 800BC.” He shook his head, grinning, showing teeth. “They’ve disproved that with that tree dating thing. Dendro…”

“Dendrochronology?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, knew you’d understand. Dendrochronology,” he repeated slowly.

“So what were their findings?” Mycroft prompted.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Neolithic, New Stone Age. Pot sherds and wood from five _thousand_ years ago, Mycroft. How’s that for history? People lived on that island in my loch five thousand years ago...” The awe in his voice was unmistakable. Mycroft smiled at the almost childlike wonder and gazed out across the glen at the small dot in the water. _A mote in God’s eye,_ he thought. _So much time, so many generations of people, each living in their own modern age..._

“Well, more snow forecast tonight,” Greg said, breaking the moment. “So we can see what tomorrow looks like, but we have got plenty of time. For good photography we need a bright day, like this really. We’ll see what we get next week maybe. Got to fill our days somehow.”

“That sounds...fun, actually. I look forward to it.” 

“I can’t imagine you having much fun in your life, Mycroft. Hopefully we can change that. Actually, do you ride? Jim and Moira, my neighbours, keep a few horses. When this snow lessens, maybe we could take them out, and you could see the extent of the glen.” For a moment the thought of Greg in a kilt on a horse threatened to short his brain out again but Mycroft reined in his imaginings again and frowned, running Greg’s words through his head again.

“Is this not all of it?” he asked, curious.

“Not quite. It bends round to the left and widens out a bit. When you get down to the end, the forest is amazing. Covers the entire end of the glen. You can ride through it. There might be deer.” 

“That sounds...amazing. Truly. I would be more than happy to join you. It’s a while since I was on horseback but one never forgets.”

“You might ache afterward though.”

“Some things are worth a little suffering, Gregory.” 

Heading back, Greg took the lead, Anders at his heels. Mycroft watched him striding through the snow, kilt swinging, the small dog bounding alongside. _He looks rugged,_ Mycroft thought, admiring the rear view. _Fit and rugged and vigorous… Oh, my, that was not the best of thoughts to have…_ he schooled his features into blandness, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, hoping his expression wasn’t an open book. 

By the time they got home, both men were ready for a sit down and a hot drink. Greg made them cocoa and they sat in the wingback chairs in front of the wood burner, listening to the logs spitting, cradling their drinks, watching the flames behind the glass. Anders obviously appreciated the warmth too and lay sprawled on the mat, sound asleep. Mycroft slid his gaze unobtrusively to where Greg was sprawled in the chair, one leg tucked over the chair arm, socked foot dangling. It spread the kilt dangerously wide, but the pleats allowed for it. Mycroft's wayward imagination got the better of him, as he wondered what it would be like to slide his hands up those strong thighs and under the kilt… He suddenly felt a bit too warm and reined in his imagination. At least he could cover his blush with the heat of the fire. 

Both men had shed their boots and top layer, Mycroft was down to his polo shirt and Greg still had the thick jumper on. After the crisp outdoors, it was nice just to sit, and they sipped their drinks in companionable silence, soaking up the warmth. Mycroft dozed, pleasantly, thoughts full of good looking men in kilts with silvered hair and brown eyes…

“Mycroft…” The voice was far away, meaningless above the warmth and comfort of the chair and the fire… “Mycroft!” He opened his eyes in time to see Greg to make a lunge for his mug, but the man missed and it tipped out of Mycroft’s lax grip, spilling the cocoa all over. It was still hot, and he jumped out of the chair with a curse. “Damn it all,” Mycroft gasped. “Not again!” Greg grabbed a cloth and tried to mop him down, but his hands hit a particularly sensitive part of Mycroft’s anatomy and the man jumped even further. “Gregory, stop!” A jolt of pure electricity had shot down Mycroft’s spine at the unsuspecting touch. 

“Sorry, Myc, I’m sorry.” Mycroft grabbed the cloth from Greg’s hand, unable to be less than abrupt in his actions. “It’s alright, you know,” Greg rushed to reassure. “There’s no harm done…” 

_No harm done? If you did but know…_ Mycroft was flustered and upset and past hearing.

Greg wasn’t sure what had happened. “Look, I didn’t notice you were dozing off until it was too late,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, Mycroft, truly...I...look, just give me your trousers, I’ll put them to soak.” 

Those brown eyes turned on him again and Mycroft nearly crumbled. “Just...I need to change…” Mycroft muttered and fled.

Greg watched him go, frowning. _What on earth… ?_ He shook his head, puzzled, and went to the Aga to make a fresh mug. There was something bothering the man, and Greg wasn't at all sure what to do or to say about it. _It wasn’t exactly a tragedy, spilling your drink..._

Mycroft stood there in the bedroom for a moment, trying to calm his muddled mind. This was intolerable. His thoughts were confused enough without this… Gregory Lestrade, his saviour, his... _fantasy_ …trying to be nice to him… It was like something out of a bad romance novel. _Whatever next? Swooning maybe? Declarations of undying affection?_ Well, effectively he had already swooned. _God, that inadvertent touch_ … Greg didn’t know what it was doing to him, having to share this place with the one man he had never expected to see again, much less in close proximity for weeks. A small wuff made him look down and Anders looked back, curious. “What are you looking at?” Mycroft demanded. The dog huffed again and laid his head down. “Don’t you start,” Mycroft muttered, dragging Greg’s dressing gown over and unbuttoning the neck of his polo shirt. He hesitated. Greg’s dressing gown. It smelled of the man; woodsy, warm and comforting… _Oh, God, was there no escaping him_?

Mycroft dried himself off as best he could but the cocoa was sticky, and it had soaked through trousers and shirt, so he thought it best to go shower, to get properly clean. He was more than half-naked, pulling his shirt over his head, when Greg came through the door, without knocking, carrying another mug, freshly filled and steaming. 

“I brought you…” he began, but froze, staring transfixed at Mycroft in all his naked glory. His mouth dried and he swallowed, clearly affected. “I...um...I’ll…” he cleared his throat noisily. “I'll come back later, shall I?” 

Speechless, Mycroft watched him back out hurriedly. 


	4. Connecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally the boys realize what they mean to each other. Mycroft also realizes he may have a kilt fetish. I know I do...

“Gregory!” Mycroft sighed. The man had gone. _Damn it all…_ He grabbed the dressing gown and wrapped himself up in it.

“Yes? What?” A rather bashful face peered partially around the door.

“There was no need for you to go. After all, it’s not as though I have anything you haven’t already seen…”

“Well, yeah, but… you were unconscious at the time. Now you're just standing there…it's different,” he muttered. “Sorry, I should have knocked. You deserve your privacy.”

“Honestly, it's not a problem, not really.” There was a short silence. 

“It was no hardship, you know,” Greg murmured. 

“I...pardon?”

“I said, it wasn’t a hardship, undressing you, putting you to bed. You’re not exactly ugly, Mycroft.”

“I was not aware that you have sight issues, Gregory. I am not exactly super model material.”

“Fuck me, Myc, who on earth qualifies as that anyway?” 

_You do,_ he couldn’t help himself thinking. “Well, I am certainly no one’s idea of beauty.”

”Come on, Myc, do you never look in a mirror?”

”I fail to see what you are driving at. Even my last partner left me for someone younger…”

Greg paused, suddenly subdued. “Mycroft, I am sorry.” Greg let out a breath. “What you said, yesterday, before everything went tits up the first time, when I covered you with tea, well...you sounded as though you were at the end of your rope, and now, I’ve tired you out...and you’ve done it again. You must think I’m fucking selfish...”

Mycroft wouldn’t meet the concerned gaze, for fear it would undo him again. Greg was always so eager to help, to comfort, to solve everyone’s problems. He had always been there for his baby brother, despite teasing the lad and taking the piss when he could, it served Sherlock right half the time, but when push came to shove, Gregory had been there, supporting, cajoling, forcing Sherlock into rehab, giving him purpose, and ultimately nearly paying the price with his own job, certainly staining his own reputation until Sherlock had been exonerated. He always did what he thought right, no matter the cost or the consequences.

“I will admit,” Mycroft said carefully, “I am not at my best, nor am I certain of what to do. I cannot think clearly. I sought a retreat, a change of pace, in order to provide some clarity to my thoughts. However, all I succeeded in doing was interrupting you and your own Fortress of Solitude. I really should go…”

“The problem with Fortresses of Solitude is that after a while they get a bit quiet,” Greg said. “After a while, they can get oppressive too. I like it here, but there comes a time when even I need to get back, to find normality, to see London again, and carry on with my life. This is a battery recharge, a time to recoup. A bit of rest never hurt, but reality has to kick in again sometime.” Greg smiled, warm, friendly. “Look, Mycroft. I do not mind you being here. Sure, radio for a helicopter if you want to, but honestly, I do not mind the company, and moreover I do not mind it being you. In truth, I would love to get to know you better, for no other good reason than I think we could be good friends. If you gave us the chance. Now, I am going to make some dinner, and then we could listen to music if you wish. There’s a performance of Carmen on Radio 3 I was going to listen to.”

“Carmen? I was not aware you cared for opera.”

“There’s probably a lot about me you don’t know, but you could find out. If you stay.”

“If I am welcome, then…”

“You are welcome.”

“Then I shall, Gregory. Thank you. I...thank you.”

“No problem. Now throw your wet things out and I’ll stick em in the wash.” Mycroft watched the man leave, although this time he left the door partially open. Anders whined. “Oh, hush, you,” Mycroft murmured, and stroked the dog’s head absently. Mycroft went to shower, then changed into his pajamas and retreated to bed. Presently, the strains of Carmen floated through the door to his ears. Lulled by the music, he dozed, the scent of something savoury cooking on the stove reaching his nose as well. _There were worse things than enforced domesticity,_ he thought, even if his host stirred feelings in him that he needed time to process. 

A while later he was woken again by Greg shouldering the door open with a tray held in his hands. “Dinner is served,” he said, coming over to the bed. Mycroft shuffled to sit up and Greg placed the tray on his knees. “Sorry I don’t have a wine cellar,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind Vimto.”

“Vimto? I am not even sure I’ve heard of that vinyard. What year?” 

“Year?” Greg smirked. “It’s cordial, Mycroft. You can have it hot, or cold, but it’s fruit juice. You know, one of those with a generous measure of E numbers.”

“Heaven forfend, Gregory. I had hoped for more from you. You cannot run a restaurant on such lines.”

“Chez Lestrade welcomes you, sir,” Greg replied, putting on a bad French accent. “‘Owever, I am afraid ze winemakers’ strike ‘az put a stop to us serving ze best vintage.”

“Damn those winemakers. I shall endeavour to put a stop to it the moment I get back to London.” Mycroft smiled at the joke, enjoying the rare feeling of being part of a joke, of companionable humour. 

“In the meantime, Monsieur, may I present you with Pasta Al Forno,” Greg said with a flourish, offering him a fork. The pasta bake steamed gently, melted cheese on the top crisped to perfection. 

“Thank you, my compliments to the chef.”

“I shall tell him, Monsieur. Gregoire? Gregoire?” He left the room, calling for Gregoire, the Chef. Almost immediately, Greg returned through the door, and said in a rather bad Italian accent, “Signore, I am told you wish to compliment me?”

“I do? Oh, I do, yes. You are the chef?”

“I am.”

“Then...my compliments.”

“Grazie. I consider myself complimented.”

“Please do.” 

Greg chuckled. “What are we like? Eat your dinner before it goes cold. That’s the real compliment.” He disappeared, and the radio volume rose a little, presumably so Mycroft could hear it better. 

Mycroft realised he must have fallen asleep again, because when he opened his eyes the place was dark, and his tray had disappeared. He sighed and reached to switch the lamp on by the bed. It was a camping lantern, and he fumbled for a switch, eventually finding one underneath. He lay there for a few minutes, realising a clarity of thought that he hadn't he hadn't had in weeks. He should be taking advantage of this situation, and yet… There was no light on in the living area, and he ventured to go see where Gregory had got to, taking the lantern with him. The living room was very dimly lit by the remaining glow from the wood burner, but Mycroft could see that Greg was asleep in one of the chairs, covered by a blanket. It gave him pause, because there was only one bed, and Greg had put him in it. So Greg was forgoing the bed and sleeping in a chair. That would not do. He must have been muddled not to realise it sooner. Mycroft reached to gently shake Greg’s shoulder.

“Mph...wha’?” Greg came awake suddenly. “Mycroft? W’as matter?” The blanket fell to the floor and he was half out of his chair before he realised there was no emergency.

“Be calm, Gregory, please. I…just realised...you’re sleeping in a chair?”

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand distractedly though the short silver strands of his hair. “I…um...I didn’t want to disturb you. You need your rest…”

“That won’t do. I am not stealing your bed as well as interrupting your solitude.”

“I don’t mind, Mycroft. Honestly. Look, I’m fine…”

“You cannot be fine. Sleeping in a chair is...well, it never does me any good, and I have fallen asleep in a chair plenty of times. Come to bed, Gregory. I insist.” 

”I am not letting you sleep in the chair,” Greg objected.

“I was not suggesting you do. The bed is surely big enough for both of us.”

“I...no, honestly… I… I couldn’t.” Mycroft was startled by the slightly panicked reaction. 

“And why not?” Silence followed his words. “Gregory?”

“Mycroft...I…” Greg’s voice was suddenly hoarse. He swallowed, then abruptly levered himself up from the chair and went to the stove. “You want tea?”

“Yes, but please, do not deflect. Why do you not want to share the bed? It’s a perfectly rational notion. We will be warmer, for one thing. Sharing body heat…” Greg made a strangled sound.

“Mycroft, stop!”

“What have I said?”

“You don’t….you really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“Damn it! This. You, here, in my home, in my bed…”

“What is there to get, exactly?” Mycroft asked, genuinely puzzled.

Greg sighed, exasperation rising again. “Mycroft, surely you are not that naive.” 

“I fail to see what is wrong… Is there something wrong with me that you don’t want to get near me?”

“Wrong with you? Hell, no. The opposite, in point of fact,” Greg said, waving a spoon at him. “As I said it was no hardship undressing you when I put you to bed, but… seriously, you’re asking me to share my bed with a fantasy I’ve had for years and to just be able to fucking sleep?” 

“Fantasy?” Mycroft blinked, confounded.

“Yes!”

“Oh.”

“That’s it? Oh? All you have for me is ‘oh’?”

“I...but Gregory, surely you know…”

“Twenty questions again? Know what, Mycroft?”

“Fantasy? Me? It is you who is the fantasy, Gregory. You have been mine for….a long time. I could never do anything about it though.”

“Me? Your fantasy? Why d’you never say?”

“You were married, happily, so I thought, to a female of the species. I had no idea you would be interested, and then I was in a relationship with Jeremy, and I could not do such a thing to him...even though he managed to do the same to me six months ago…”

“Ah, Myc, I had no idea,” Greg said, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. Are you…?” 

“Fine. I am fine. The truth is, we were drifting apart long before then, but it took him awhile to find someone new. When he did, I had no time to recover before my sister struck, and now… well, I…” He shrugged, wordlessly.

“So, we are both the object of each other’s fantasies, hm?”

“Seems that way.” 

Greg grinned. “Isn’t it always the bloody way?” He shook his head. “Bloody fates.”

“Well, we… have time now.” Mycroft stepped closer and Greg hopped up to sit on the work surface between the Aga and the sink, obligingly parting his knees so that Mycroft stepped into the space between.

“So… you want to explore this fantasy of yours?” Greg asked, quietly. “Because I should inform you, I wear a kilt in the traditional way.”

“The traditional way? Really, Gregory?” Boldly, Mycroft slid his hands along Greg’s thighs, under the kilt hem. 

“Really, Mycroft,” he said, grinning at Mycroft’s expression as his questing hands found nothing to hinder their exploration. 

“Come to bed, Gregory,” Mycroft insisted, breathless. “We’ve wasted too much time as it is.” 

Greg chuckled. “Take it easy, Gorgeous. Remember you’ve not really got over your car crash yet, not to mention falling into my arms…”

Mycroft huffed, frustrated. “Gregory, stop making it sound like a Mills and Boone. I am fine. More than fine. Besides, we can at least share the bed. We don’t have to do anything…”

Greg levered himself off his impromptu seat and stepped into Mycroft’s personal space. ”If you think for one minute that I’m going to be able to keep my hands off you now, you have another thing coming…”

Mycroft shivered at those words, feeling a weight lift off him for the first time in months, maybe even years. “Then we shall cross that bridge when we come to it,” he murmured happily, dragging Greg into a heated kiss, a hand snaking around behind his head to hold him there. The kiss was returned, Greg’s tongue begging entry, tasting him, taking time to really explore. When they broke the kiss for air, Mycroft lead the way to the bedroom, fingers linked lightly in Greg’s, towing the man along. He did not need persuading.

In the bedroom, Mycroft pushed Greg down onto the bed. He went willingly enough, flopping onto his back, kilt rucking up to reveal the strong thighs beneath. Mycroft was quick to join him on the bed, and moved to straddle him, sinking down to rut gently against a growing erection. Greg gasped, hips lifting to meet Mycroft’s movements, hands reaching to grasp his thighs.

“Shouldn’t we...well, you’re wearing too many clothes…”

”I know…” Mycroft struggled to divest himself of the dressing gown, shivering in the cool air despite the pajamas underneath.

”Here, let me,” Greg said, sitting up, reaching to unbutton and untie and slide off until Mycroft was naked under his hands. “God, you are gorgeous.” He threaded his fingers through the light covering of ginger chest hair, catching a nipple with his thumb, pinching gently.

Mycroft gasped and blushed under his gaze, under the heated touch of fingers that wanted so much to explore, to touch, roaming almost feverishly over his skin.

He let his own fingers push the kilt back, exposing more of the delicious body beneath. Gregory was fully erect, thick cock bobbing in anticipation. Greg grinned. “Told you,” he said. “Traditional way.” He reached down and wriggled and pulled his thick jumper off, revealing a simple t-shirt beneath that he also tugged impatiently off over his head. Mycroft drank in the sight of the bare skin, dark nipples standing proud, dark dusting of hair across his chest, a trail of it leading down to the waistband of the kilt. When Greg reached for the buckle of his belt though, Mycroft stilled his hand.

“That stays,” he said firmly. “It is quite possibly the single most sexy thing I have ever seen anybody wear, never mind you. I want you to leave it on.”

“Okay, your wish is my command.” Mycroft leaned forward, aligning their cocks, frotting carefully. Greg gasped at the sensation of pressure, his leaking cock aiding the slip and slide of Mycroft’s against his own. “F.f.fuck,” he stuttered. “Myc…” 

“Come, Gregory, just...I want to feel you…” Greg’s growling groan was unfortunately enough to bring Mycroft over the edge, gasping and shuddering through it. Greg’s arms held him as he shook, hands soothing along his back, rubbing circles. “Oh, God, I am...so sorry, I….”

”No worries, Gorgeous. It’s fine.” Greg wrapped a hand around his own cock and tugged, those dark eyes locking their gaze onto his lover’s blue ones. “You can watch me instead.” Mycroft sat transfixed, unable to take his eyes off Greg’s hand sliding with slow surety along his own length. Greg’s head fell back, gasping, and Mycroft lay down beside him, reaching for a kiss. Greg couldn’t help the soft moan as Mycroft’s lips connected, his tongue exploring, and then he felt Mycroft’s hand locking over his, moving with him. He disengaged his own hand and let Mycroft do the work, feeling the pressure build as the object of his own fantasy pleasured him. Mycroft twisted his grip on the downstroke just so, and Greg arched, his orgasm crashing through him, forgetting to breathe with the intensity. 

”That...was...Christ, there are no words…” Greg sounded wrecked.

”I agree. I can think of nothing in the English language adequate enough to describe it,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “Oh, Gregory. This does not feel real…”

“Oh, it’s real enough, Gorgeous,” Greg replied. “Don’t worry about that. Jesus, I think you broke me.” 

“I sincerely hope not, my love.”

“I'll be okay… Might need a back rub though…” 

Mycroft smiled at the hopeful tone. “Only if you are good. Right now, we need to clean up.” 

“Could use the shower?” 

“Will it hold both of us?” 

“Time to find out…” Greg shed the kilt, stepping close and pulling Mycroft flush against him. His hands were warm against Mycroft's back. 

“You know… I'm glad we found this.” 

“I cannot agree more… Gregory, when we return to London, I wonder… Would you consider wearing your kilt again?”

Greg chuckled as he towed Mycroft to the shower. “Only if you're good,” he said with a mischievous grin. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inverlornay is a fiction although Dalavich and Inveraray are real. Cottages like Greg's are called blackhouses, with thick walls, turf roofs and earth floors, although Greg has updated his a little. It is not unusual to own a small valley complete with loch, having stayed in a Scottish house whose owners owned exactly that. Must be lovely to own a whole valley.


End file.
